The week after the auction passed in a blur of meetings, strategies, and heightened tension across the Château. Today was no different. Brooklyn was set to meet with the Italian clan leader, Rosalia D’Angelo, to finalise the details of the new alliance—a deal that could secure the Holloway family a lucrative flow of weapons and influence.

The morning had begun with a long, gruelling meeting between Brooklyn and her father. Ian had sat through it, mostly silent, absorbing details about the upcoming negotiations while mentally strategising their security. Unlike the French clan, Rosalia D’Angelo had always been distant toward the Holloways and closer with the Wyndams, something to do with Gaius’ late wife, who had been a cousin of Rosalia. Today was more than just business—it was a chance to bridge that gap and solidify trust. Brooklyn didn’t need reminding. Her father had driven the point home, over and over. Ian, however, wasn’t concerned with politics. His job was simpler: keep Brooklyn alive.

♤♤♤

As the sun dipped low, casting Ironhaven into its familiar gloom, Ian found himself staring out the window of the convoy. The drive toward the meeting location—a decrepit hangar on the outskirts of the city—felt longer than it was.

Through the tinted glass, Ironhaven unfurled in all its grim majesty. The further they travelled, the more the city seemed to decay. Old factories loomed like forgotten sentinels, their rusting husks throwing shadows over cracked pavement. Rows of tenements leaned into each other as though they might collapse, graffiti and grime claiming every inch of their broken facades. Children played in the dirt alongside prowling strays, while street vendors called out halfheartedly to workers trudging home.

The Blackflow River snaked sluggishly in the distance, reflecting the weak light of a dying sun. Its surface, blackened and polluted, mirrored the city’s soul—a beautiful ruin, beyond redemption.

Ian turned his attention back to the men in the vehicle. He, Bruce, and Tim sat flanking Brooklyn, who remained unbothered, her gaze fixed calmly ahead. Ian had seen her angry, irritated, even frustrated, but never nervous.

“You’ve got everything?” Ian asked softly, more out of habit than concern.

Brooklyn didn’t look at him, just smirked faintly. “Of course.”

♤♤♤

The convoy rolled to a stop outside the hangar, its rusted shell barely holding together. Three black SUVs were already parked outside, their presence undercutting the building’s abandoned facade. Ian’s eyes narrowed as he spotted three armed guards standing at the entrance, rifles slung carelessly across their chests.

“Guns out,” Ian ordered quietly, stepping out of the car first. The men obeyed without question. Ian checked his sidearm—a sleek M9A1 pistol—adjusting its weight in his grip. He had a Magnum tucked at his back and knives strapped discreetly beneath his jacket. Bruce carried a shotgun, while Tim held twin pistols, his fingers hovering uncertainly near the grips.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Brooklyn emerged last, stepping lightly onto the cracked ground. Her suit jacket hid a thin, tailored bulletproof vest, but she kept her weapons holstered. For now, Brooklyn needed to project control, not aggression.

“Stick close,” Ian murmured to Tim and Bruce as they approached the hangar. “Eyes open.”

The Italian guards exchanged brief looks before stepping aside. Ian made sure to position himself between Brooklyn and the men as they entered.

Inside, the hangar felt colder than it should have. Its vast emptiness swallowed sound, the faint echo of footsteps bouncing off corrugated walls. At its centre stood Rosalia D’Angelo, poised beside a long, metal table.

Gone was the glamour of the auction. Tonight, Rosalia wore simple cream pants and a white cotton shirt, her silver hair falling loosely over her shoulders. The elegance remained, but so did the edge. Ian noticed the moment Rosalia’s green eyes landed on Brooklyn. The faint scowl that creased her features broke whatever warmth had been in her beauty.

“Signora,” Brooklyn greeted smiling, her tone polite, kind but firm.

Rosalia didn’t bother returning the pleasantry. “Signorina Holloway. A pleasure… though I expected your father, not his inexperienced daughter.”

Ian felt Brooklyn bristle beside him, though she covered it quickly. She offered a sharp smile, the kind that didn’t reach her eyes. “My father trusts me to handle this meeting. He sent me as a sign of respect, signora. Sending his successor shows just how much faith he has in our partnership.”

Rosalia’s lip curled faintly. “And yet, your family always claimed to value seniority over youth. How disappointing to see Mr. Holloway himself did not feel this was worth his time.”

Brooklyn’s cheekbones tinged red, though her voice stayed sweet as honey. “My father values efficiency. I assure you that you’ll find I’m quite capable.”

Before Rosalia could respond, the hangar doors groaned open.

Ian turned sharply, his hand already grazing his pistol. He didn’t need to guess who it was.

Gaius Wyndam entered with a confident stride, dressed in an immaculate sunset-orange suit that clashed garishly against the grey of the hangar. His dark hair was tied neatly back, scars faintly marking the sharp planes of his face. Behind him walked Avalon, flanked by two guards.

Ian’s jaw tightened.

Avalon Wyndam looked as composed and dangerous as ever. He wore black trousers and a white, sleeveless top that clung to his lean frame. The cut exposed his ink—tattoos crawling up his arms and around his neck, their intricate lines sharp against his pale skin. His dark hair was styled perfectly, not a strand out of place, though Ian knew better than to mistake that elegance for softness.

There was no visible weapon on him—nothing obvious, at least—but Ian wasn’t fooled. Avalon was too smart, too calculating to come unarmed.

“Dio mio! Gaius, mio amico!” Rosalia’s demeanour shifted instantly, her smile lighting up as she swept past Brooklyn to greet the Wyndam leader. They kissed each other’s cheeks, laughter echoing through the hangar like a cruel joke.

Ian barely listened, his attention flickering to Avalon, whose sharp eyes swept over the room. Their gazes locked briefly, and Avalon’s lips curved faintly upward in a knowing smirk.

“Eyes on the Wyndams,” Ian muttered to Bruce and Tim, motioning them to stay close.

Brooklyn, however, moved toward the group, her posture rigid with contained fury. “Mr. Wyndam.” Her greeting to Gaius was cold, though polite. She offered a similar nod to Gaius’ eldest son. “Avalon. Always a pleasure.”

Gaius turned to her with the easy, practised charm of a snake. “Brooklyn. I had business nearby, and I couldn’t resist greeting an old friend.” He gestured warmly to Rosalia, whose arm lingered in his.

Brooklyn didn’t flinch. “We won the bid, Mr. Wyndam. This deal is for the Holloways. You have no place here.”

“Come now,” Gaius chided softly. “There’s no harm in saying hello, is there?”

Before Brooklyn could respond, Rosalia raised a hand in front of her face. “Enough.” Her voice cut cleanly through the room. “Signorina, if your father truly wishes to do business with us, he will meet me himself. Not send his offspring to waste my time.”

Brooklyn stood frozen, her smile forced, though Ian could see the anger simmering beneath the surface.

Rosalia turned back to Gaius, dismissing Brooklyn with ease. “I’ll leave with my friend now. We’ll see about the deal’s outcome later.”